The Dreamer's Key
by Somin
Summary: From the Inquisitorial vaults of Watch-Fortress Vantos, a long-guarded relic is stolen. Shortly afterwards, the Warrant of Trade of a mighty Rogue Trader family is also taken. What is the connection? Rogue Inquisitors, nicer Inquisitors, Deathwatch Space Marines, Rogue Traders, kilometer-long starships, and a Space Wolf Rune Priest. What more do you want? Be warned; slow burner.
1. Chapter 1

This is my first fanfic. It was started last summer when I had far too much time on my hands, and then forgotten about until I happened to be reorganising my computer last week. I decided that I should post it here, rather than leaving it to gather dust on my hardrive for the remainder of time.

So.. constructive criticism welcome. And compliments, of course. If you have a desperate urge to tell me how awesome I am, don't feel shy. Also, let me know if the chapters are too long; I couldn't decide whether to cut them down, so left them as they are. I'm not sure how good it is, or if I'll finish it. If enough people like it, I can probably summon the motivation to give writing the rest a shot; it's all already planned out somewhere. If not, no worries.

Games Workshop owns the galaxy of the Imperium, and most things therein and thereof, obviously. Along with lots of other stuff. They're a big company. The characters in this work, however, are mine. Any resemblance to anyone else, fictional, historical or real, is coincidental. Basically, don't sue me. I'm pretty poor.

Hope you enjoy it.

-Somin.

* * *

****CHAPTER 1****

_The winds of the dream are trapped by the walls of stone.  
-Excerpt from 'The Dreamer Awakes'_

The sun had just set. The streets of Arintor were full of multicoloured lamps, strung along between the low roofs. Beneath them, the pilgrims and citizens thronged purposefully, setting tables along the centre of the streets, turning entire graxx on spits above snapping fires, and dragging immense barrels of scrap to where they would serve, in a few short hours, as impromptu bars.

Tonight was the Feast of the Years, a celebration held every half century in memory of the liberation of the planet in the final years of the God-Emperor's great crusade, and of the planet's first governor, Ancion the Ancient. The streets were full of smoke and music and laughter. Colam Benin had found himself a place to sit upon the eaves of the scholam he had once attended, where he could look across the dark, tiled roofs to the fortress-palace shuttle pad. Usually a quiet black square amidst the glow of the city, tonight it was ablaze with activity.

Having finished his appointed tasks earlier that evening, Colam had clambered up to his old haunt to hopefully catch a glimpse of some of the de Valliards themselves, as their shuttles dropped them from orbit. He was out of practice; several times he had to backtrack to find near-forgotten handholds. When he finally reached the roof, he had found several other citizens sitting in small groups spread across the tiles. A few he recognised from his days at the scholam. All of them were watching the shuttle pad and the palace, and talking amongst themselves excitedly.

Colam had sat by himself, and thus far had seen little of interest. A single atmospheric flyer had landed in the last ten minutes, carrying, according to a loud dismissive man to Colam's right, a dignitary from Pellagon, one of the minor cities on the southern continent of Ancion's End. Arintor was the planet's capital, and any number of important figures were converging on the city for the Feast of the Years. For Colam, however, planetary dignitaries were of little interest. Away on the parade ground he could see the tiny figure of the Pellagon dignitary being escorted past lines of de Valliard house troops towards the towering bulk of the palace itself. From this range they looked like hundreds of toy soldiers, unmoving in the white glare of the shuttle pad illuminators.

'That's power, that is,' said the loud man to Colam's right. He seemed to be of the opinion that everyone near him cared what he thought. 'That many troops to welcome a representative of a minor city? They'd be better use over there.' He nodded across the city to the Cathederal St. Evienne. From this angle, they could just see the immense open doors, and the light from within flooding out across the heaving sea of pilgrims who filled the steps and the Cathederal square in their thousands.

Every feast, hundreds of thousands of the faithful journeyed to Ancion's End, in the hope of being one of the ten thousand chosen by the Ecclesiarchy to be allowed to see the Warrant itself. The loud man sniffed. 'Poor bloody Arbites must be having a devil of a time over there, keeping all those scum in line.'

'Scum?' A grey-haired stocky woman, sitting with two children across the roof from Colam interrupted angrily; 'some of those pilgrims have travelled half the galaxy for this chance. Have a little respect for them.'

'Why should I?' he turned towards her, his tone rising in anger. 'We don't get to see it. I'll live my whole fething life here and never see it. I'll work and die, and watch a bunch of dirty scavengers walk past me every fifty years to see the single most holy thing in the subsector, and never get to see it.'

A thin man sitting in front of them turned around. Colam recognised him from the year above him at the scholam. Colam thought he worked for the ministorum now. 'It's their reward for their sacrifice. What have you sacrificed? You can always hand in your citizenship and join them, if you want to see the Warrant so badly. You'll be given an equal chance to be one of the ten thousand as any of them.'

The loud man purpled into fury, and responded. Other citizens on the rooftop joined the argument, on either side. Their voices drifted out, to mingle with the smoke and coloured lights and hubbub from the streets below.

'Hush, all of you.' Colam had been watching the evening sky. 'Look.' He raised his hand and pointed. High up in the sky above them, set against the bluish curve of the upper atmosphere and the red cratered surface of the planet's only moon, a star was falling. Vertical at first, it began to curve towards Arintor as it descended, a contrail lit by the set sun feathering out behind it as it dropped into thicker layers of air. Soon it was visibly slowing, winding around the city like a hawk circling a mouse. Around Colam, a quiet had fallen upon the watchers, their argument forgetten.

'Is that..' someone started, and then trailed off.

'Well it's from orbit, so it's likely. The Old Woman is already planetside, but I don't think any of the others have arrived yet.' The loud man's voice was considerably quieter than it had been before.

'One of the de Valliards!' One of the children with the grey-haired stocky woman piped up, and Colam could hear his own excitement mirrored in the child's voice.

One of the de Valliards. The legendary Rogue Trader family who had ruled Ancion's End since the earliest days of the Imperium. Every half century, at the Feast of the Years, they returned to Ancion's End to celebrate, along with their citizens, the liberation of the planet and the award of the Warrant of Trade to then-Admiral Ancion by the primarch Sanguinius himself. Colam hadn't been born at the last feast, but he had learned the names of the family and their ships by rote at the scholam beneath him; he had grown up with their legends around him. The _Imperator Lux_, the _Admiral Ancion_, the _Spiritus Imperialis_. The knowledge that such ancient ships were drifitng in the heavens above his head, waiting to ferry their masters to his world, filled Colam with a heady mix of fear and excitement and anticipation.

The light of the orbital shuttle was much closer now, tracking along a route that would take it almost directly over their heads. As it glided across the city, the lights beneath illuminated a squat, bulky shape, angular against the sky. Around Colam the people scrambled to their feet, and began to cheer and wave. He stood up more slowly; something felt wrong. As the shuttle passed above them, downdraft rattling the tiles, the cheering died away around him. Completely black, the only mark upon it was the insignia stamped on the side; a white stylised I, illuminated eerily by the cheerful multicoloured lights of the city below.

'Feth' muttered the grey-haired woman quietly. Sensing the change in mood of the adults, one of the children began to cry.

The Inquisition had come to Ancion's End.

* * *

'The Inquisition?' Danton de Valliard inquired, flattening his epauletted dress greatcoat against himself and eyeing his profile in his wall mirror.

'Yes, my Lord,' Quinlus was standing, as always, precisely three feet from the front of Danton's desk, gazing at the data slate in front of him. 'It would appear that Lord Dochius de Valliard invited the Inquisitor to observe the Ceremony of the Warrant.' Danton could hear the capitals dropping carefully into place in the seneschal's prim, scratchy voice.

'He did, did he?' The greatcoat, heavy as it was, did not completely hide the growing paunch that graced Danton's waistline. 'Trust that old bastard to ruin a perfectly good party. Aren't most Inquisitors a little too busy to go on pilgrammage?'

'As I understand it, Lord' said Quinlus, the tiniest suspiscion of reproach for 'that old bastard' entering his voice, 'the Holy Inquisitor is making a study of relics relating to the primarch Sanguinius. Your late father's brother thought it wise, perhaps..'

Danton turned sharply, and the seneschal paused. 'Do I look fat in this?' He asked, and spread his arms. Quinlus wavered for a moment, thrown.

'My Lord looks.. noble' he offered.

'So yes, then.' Danton shrugged, and crossed to his desk, opening the box of rings already placed there. Quinlus remained in his place, staring at the streams of figures running across the data slate in his hands. Danton sometimes wondered if the seneschal gazed more at his figures than at his master because it made it easier to pretend that he still spoke to the father, not to the son. Quinlus had been passed on to Danton, along with the command of the _Spiritus Imperialis_, after his father's untimely death, eight years previously.

Quinlus cleared his throat, a sure sign, Danton knew, that he wished to return to the topic he had been discussing. The ageing seneschal still thought his master, at 52, was slightly too young to understand the world. He would insist on explaining every political nuance unless instructed otherwise.

Danton ran his fingers over the rings in front of him. 'I understand why Uncle Dochius would have made the offer, Quinlus. An inquisitor makes a powerful ally, and a more powerful enemy. To invite one to our most sacred of rituals leaves him indebted to us and creates a sense of openess which is.. valuable.. when dealing with the Inquisition.' He selected an emerald signet, and slid it onto his index finger. Now he thought about it, his fingers were starting to look a little wider than they once had. He frowned.

'Precisely, my Lord.' The seneschal looked up from his data slate and gestured slightly toward the box of rings. 'If I may, my Lord, perhaps the topaz?'

It wasn't an aesthetic suggestion. The several rings lying on the velvet in front of Danton would have been worth a small fortune had they merely been the metal and gem combinations they superficially appeared to be. Each, however, was an archeotech marvel. The emerald, which Danton had already chosen, incorporated a digi-laser as powerful as a las-pistol, triggered by a neural impulse from its wearer. The topaz suggested by Quinlus was a stun device; a miniature version of a synapse grenade, it would, when activated, trigger a blast which would temporarily disable the higher brain functions of every sentient within twenty feet other than its wearer. Danton had always thought it a bit cowardly, but he slipped it on anyway.

'You do know Symonne is accompanying us?' It was mostly a rhetorical question. The seneschal knew everything.

'The master-of-blades is formidable, my Lord.' Quinlus smiled, very slightly. 'In matters of your personal safety, however, I know she errs as much on the side of caution as I do.'

He was right, damn his wrinkly old face. If Symonne Evian had her way, Danton would barely be able to ever see anything over the shoulders of a hundred or so of his personal armsmen. His desire to wander around unknown worlds and stations with a handful of his closest subordinates never ceased to annoy her. That said, it might be wise to be a little cautious. The last time he had attended the Feast, he had been two. Security had been someone else's concern. Now, however, he was the master of the _Spiritus Imperialis_, and seventh in line to the warrant itself. Whatever the glorious history told of them in the scholams of Ancion's End, the de Valliards had, like most noble dynasties, occaisional periods of internal strife. The Feast of the Years had played host to several high profile assassinations and a few coups over the millenia.

He picked a small jet and gold ring from its velvet bed and screwed it over his little finger, then closed the box. 'Anything else?' He couldn't resist going back over to the wall mirror for another look.

'Perhaps my Lord might consider a dress sword?' Danton could see the seneschal watching him in the mirror. 'To give a more military impression?'

'And to counter-balance my stomach? Damn the family's opinion of me. And damn you, too. I command the _Spiritus_. You think I need to wear a silly little dress sword to look impressive?' Danton turned angrily, and then recollected himself at the sight of the motionless Quinlus. He sighed. 'My apologies, seneschal. I haven't seen most of the family in years. This feast has me on edge. Meet me at the shuttle please; and inform Thanon the ship is his. Tell him not to break anything.' Thanon Lucius was Danton's calm and reliable second; the joke had become a tradition between them.

'Of course, my Lord.' Quinlus turned and left, his mouth a thinner line than unusal. Danton was left alone with his thoughts, and a growing sense of shame. It wasn't usual of him to snap at his seneschal, however much the old man's attitude irked him from time to time. Clearly the prospect of being watched and judged by the family in a few hours was getting to him.

Perhaps what his reflection was missing _was_ a sword. As a replacement for actual excersise. But a dress sword? Danton's eye was drawn to the alcove behind his desk, and what was hanging there. Now that was a sword. If he was going to carry a blade, it might as well be one he could do some damage with. The power blade behind his desk had been given to him at nineteen by Eleana de Valliard herself in recognition of his first command. He had called it, with youthful bravado, _Veritus_. Taking it down, he turned it over in his hands. He hadn't held it in years, but the hilt still felt familiar to his palm. Back then, he had been something of a swordsman.

He buckled _Veritus_ over his hip and left his quarters, acknowledging the salute of the two armsmen outside his door with a brief nod. Besides, he thought, with some amusement, he would enjoy Symonne's reaction no end.

* * *

'And what do you plan to do if someone more than three feet away from you has a gun?' Symonne Evian was a small, wiry woman with an apparently endless supply of energy that made Danton feel quite tired. She was standing in the centre of the shuttle as it dropped through the atmosphere, balancing on the balls of her feet and swaying as the craft shuddered through the turbulence of re-entry.

Danton smiled up at her from his seat next to one of the shuttle's small carb-glass windows. Below them Ancion's End was revolving majestically nightwards. 'I thought perhaps you could shoot them through the head for me?' He guessed it must be about evening in Arintor; the planet's capital was currently a cluster of lights a mile below them and to the west.

Symonne scowled, and rubbed the butt of one of her bolt pistols with her thumb. Dressed in grey combat armour, with twin compact bolt pistols holstered under her arms, and a slim powerblade on her hip, her only concession to the occasion was a greatcoat in the light blue of Danton's personal guard worn open to allow her access to her weaponry.

'The sword imbues my lord with an air of regality' remarked the scratchy voice of Quinlus from the other side of the shuttle. That was about as close as the seneschal would come to an 'I told you so', Danton reckoned.

'Pity about the rest of him' said Maracoth, with a smile. A tall, ageing man, with something of the air of a schoolteacher about him, the fourth occupant of the shuttle was watching their descent out of the window with a practiced eye. As Voidmaster and commander of all of _Spiritus Imperialis'_ squadrons, he would have selected the shuttle pilots for the flight personally. Dressed simply in a brown coat with Danton's blue crest on the collar, he carried, as always, no visible weapons.

'Thanks Marac.' Danton waved at his master-of-blades impatiently 'And sit down, Symonne, for feth's sake. You're making me uncomfortable with all that standing.' Symonne grunted and subsided into the nearest seat.

'I'm on edge. In a worst case senario, I'm your only line of defense for as long as it takes for _Spiritus'_ shuttles to reach us.' She forestalled Danton's objection by gesturing towards his hip. 'I've never even seen you touch that. You wearing it today doesn't reassure me about the safety of this family reunion.'

'In fairness, Lady Evian, the last incident at the Feast of the Years was 150 years ago.' Quinlus was examining his data-slate again. 'Since Eleana de Valliard's custodianship began, what frictions there are in the family have been kept strictly non-violent.'

'I can't say I'm surprised,' muttered Maracoth.

Danton nodded. The last time he had met his grandmother had been eight years ago, at his father's funeral. He still shivered every time he recalled her piercing blue eyes boring into his. 'A great man, your father' she had said. 'I hope you follow in his wake.' Her expression had suggested she thought it unlikely, at best. Not a woman to cross, Eleana de Valliard.

The shuttle had descended far enough into the atmosphere that it was now night around them; in the sky on either side flashing lights marked the paths of the escorting PDF Lightnings which had met them as they descended. Maracoth was watching the nearest Lightning with all the focus of a pilot who had been Voidmaster on the _Spiritus_ for over half a decade. Judging by the twist of his mouth, he was evidently unimpressed by something.

'Marac?' Symonne had seen his expression too. 'Not a fan of our escorts?'

Maracoth shook his head. 'They're showy, for sure. But watch the engine burn of the one to port. See that slight flicker, every four seconds or so?' Danton stared for a moment, and then saw what the Voidmaster meant. The blue cone of the Lightning's engine would fade slightly every few seconds.

'So?' As master-of-blades, the mysteries of the machine were not Symonne's forte.

'It's been blessed badly. Try to pull a high-g at the wrong moment in that and you'll stall.' Maracoth sounded slightly disappointed, as though let down by a pupil with promise.

The shuttle was low now, skimming the rooftops of Arintor. Below them, in the streets, Danton could see coloured lamps and the smoke of street bonfires. Thousands of people thronged even the smallest streets, and he could make out the faces of individuals waving from the rooftops. Moments later, they decelerated hard, and the city passed beneath them to become the flat plane of the family shuttlepad. A gentle bump announced their arrival on Ancion's End, and the Lightnings lifted away with a scream of engines, their duty done.

* * *

'Children. Honoured guest.' Eleana stared coldly at the forty or so people standing before her. It amused Danton greatly to see some of his more insufferable cousins, with whom he had already been forced to spend several hours, stiffen indignantly around him at being called 'children'.

'Once again we come together. Tomorrow shall be the true Feast of the Years, when the pilgrims pay their respects, but as is traditional, I have called you down here tonight to witness the opening of the vault, and to take part in the Ceremony of the Warrant.'

The air in the vault's ante-chamber was icy, and Danton was glad of his greatcoat. Around him the misting breaths of the de Valliards rose to the high vaulted ceiling, watched on either side by statues of Holders of the Warrant so old their features were no longer visible. He doubted that any but the recorders in the Hall of Years even remembered their names. In front of them, behind his grandmother, an immense bronze circular door was sunk into the bedrock the Fortress-Palace was built on. Etched onto its surface were images of the liberation of Ancion's End, and the Ancion the Ancient himself receiving the gift of the Warrant from the winged Primarch. This whole hall dated from that period, and mounted on the walls were other bronze etchings detailing the early years of Ancion's End; the discovery of the bedrock tunnels, the building of the vault, and the terrible betrayal which led to the planet's name taking on a new meaning. Eleana was speaking again, and Danton dragged his attention from a beautiful and terrible depiction of the final fiery death of the _Angelicus Lux_.

'This feast is unusual. At the invitation of my son Dochius, we are graced by the presense of a member of the Holy Inquisition. He will of course not be taking the oath of Allegiance.' A few sycophantic titters were stared icily into silence by Eleana. She continued 'You have been afforded a rare honour, my Lord Inquisitor Copelan. I trust you will respect our ceremony.' Danton would have bet his ship that his Uncle Dochius had been reprimanded quite severly for his invitation. Whatever the advantages of an Inquisitorial favour, Eleana had very strict views on the privacy of the Ceremony of the Warrant.

A figure stepped forward, and Danton was afforded his first proper view of the intruder in their midst. The inquisitor was tall and slender, a with a thin face and a shaved head. Across his skull, a lattice of silvery lines and ridges suggested some type of cognitive enhancement. When he spoke, his voice was soft and damp. 'My thanks, Lady de Valliard. I am indeed aware of the honour done me. I merely wish to observe the relic. I shall not intrude more than is necessary.' Danton disliked him instantly.

Eleana nodded shortly, and then turned to the figure beside her. 'If you would, Domin?' Domin Carrus, Arch-Seneschal of the family, handed her an immense golden disc. She crossed to the vault door and placed the disk into a space left for it, then placed her hand on it. As Danton understood it, the vault would only open if it recognised a descendent of Ancion. There was a clicking and grinding, and Eleana stepped back.

Slowly, very slowly, the bronze door began to open upwards. The assembled de Valliards craned closer. Inquisitor Copelan, Danton noticed, was amongst them. His expression was one of palpable lust, and Danton suddenly felt uneasy. He fingered the jet and gold ring on his little finger for a moment, and then shook his head. Foolish. Of course the Inquisitor was excited; he was about to see a relic touched by the hand of a primarch.

The bronze door slowly ground to a halt. The chamber within was lit only by the lights from the ante-chamber. Carved simply from the bedrock, it contained a single pedestal. Upon the pedestal lay a long gold cylinder, inscribed with spirals of characters Danton did not recognise. He did not need to; this was the case of the Warrant - the parchment itself lay within. Both had been the gifts of the Primarch, who had charged Ancion with their protection.

As Eleana entered the chamber, Danton saw the Inquisitor shift slightly. He appeared to have something in his hand. Something wasn't right. Danton opened his mouth to shout, to warn, to something, and Copelan tossed the object lightly onto the floor in front of them.

Danton could hear screaming. He wasn't sure if it was him. His eyes could still see, but his mind no longer explained the images to him. It was as if he was a fish in a tank, with inexplicable monsters looming beyond the walls. Synapse grenade. The thought twisted and faded in his head. He could feel his sanity trickling out of his eyes. Around him the non-shapes were twisting and grasping and falling. He pressed the jet ring on his little finger, and blacked out.


	2. Chapter 2

***CHAPTER 2***

_The devourer shall come to eternal light. The devourer shall be devoured.  
_- _Excerpt from 'The Dreamer Awakes'_

The thunderhawk ramp wound slowly open, and the scent of the asteroid hissed inside, wrapping itself around Gunnlaug and stirring the furs he wore over his armour. The Rune Priest closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. He could smell the age of the Inquisitorial fortress-asteroid; thousands of years of emotions and events hanging in the air like moisture. Thousands of years of faces and names, forgotten but for the lingering taste they left behind them, discernable only to those few with the gifts to sense it.

He opened his eyes at the click of the ramp touching the rock of the hangar floor, and strode forward into the immense space beyond. A single figure stood waiting for him, clad and helmed in black ceramite and holding a power glaive in his left fist. He stepped forward and offered his free hand to Gunnlaug; vambrace to vambrace, the warrior's grip. He smelled hard, of ceramite and control.

'Brother-Librarian. I am Keeper Ariccus. You made good time.' His voice was gravelly and slow, the voice of one unused to speaking regularly.

Gunnlaug nodded. It still sounded strange to hear himself referred to as 'Brother-Librarian' rather than 'Rune Priest'. 'Of course, Brother-Keeper. The Inquisitor's message was urgent.'

'Yes.' Gunnlaug smelled anger as the Keeper turned and gestured for him to walk alongside. Anger, and just a hint of shame. Almost as an afterthought, Ariccus indicated the rock cavern around them with his glaive. 'Welcome to the Vaults of Vantus.'

Fortress Vantus, hidden in an icy nebula in the Sable Reach, lay on the far north east rim of the galaxy. It was one of the loneliest and most secret places in the Ultima Segmentum. Once it had served as both a Deathwatch fortress and the centre of Ordos Xenos power in the subsector. Now it mouldered, guarding old secrets. As Gunnlaug was led through immense halls and down winding staircases, through huge vaulted doors and past faded paintings, he saw nothing alive in the inches of dust. Only the whine of his and Ariccus' armour generators, and the heavy thud of their boots disturbed the long-silent corridors.

It had not been so, once. Once the fortress had rung to the sounds of hosts; long-forgotten armies dead in long-forgotten wars. Gunnlaug could hear them and smell them, on the very edge of his senses; the ghosts of soldiers sent to die in ancient crusades. In a way, he pitied them. Not for their sacrifices; to die for the Imperium in the furnaces of war was as much as any man could hope for. He pitied them that they had been forgotten; that their memories had lain, like the dust, for centuries; until one such as he walked through them.

Soon they began to descend deeper into Vantus, leaving the armies of the past behind. Now Gunnlaug could hear the screams of past prisoners, and feel the pain of tortured heretics seeping from the walls. Here and there in the memories of the fortress were bright figures; steeped in purpose and faith. Inquisitors and battle-brothers, defenders of the Imperium in both the shadow and the light. They at least would be remembered.

They halted before an immense silver door, embossed with statues of angels and the Inquisitorial I. Two more Keepers stood guard, features invisible behind their helms, weapons drawn and ready. By their shoulder pads, one was an Ultramarine, the other a Crimson Fist. Neither would likely see their home chapters again; the calling of a Deathwatch Keeper demanded a heavy price.

They acknowledged Ariccus and Gunnlaug briefly, before returning their featureless gazes to the empty corridor. Ariccus motioned for Gunnlaug to stand back, and gestured with his Clavis towards the door. It rose into the rock above them with barely a whisper, and the two space marines stepped through into the darkness beyond.

'These are the vaults proper'. Ariccus seemed to feel the need to break the silence. Around them, old lights flickered to life, illuminating in orange an unadorned tunnel curving down and away from them. 'They are ranked by depth; those closest to the asteroid core hold the most valuable relics.' Again, his scent was laced with the warm redness of shame and anger. 'We should proceed quickly; we still have quite a distance to cover.'

'Of course,' Gunnlaug glanced behind him as the door slowly lowered, cutting them off from the lit corridors of Vantus proper. Down here, the smells were almost gone; it was as if the place had no history. Only the constant passage of the Keepers and the occasional Inquisitor had disturbed the years. Strangely, there was little dust.

'How long have you guarded these corridors, Brother Ariccus?' He could smell the answer on him; centuries. He wondered how old the face under the helm would look.

'As long as I have been needed.' Pride, purpose, and then, again, that betraying fury. Gunnlaug could see the other marine tense slightly, could sense his indignation at some unspoken defilement. He didn't his psykic gifts to guess.

'What was taken, brother?'

* * *

Barros paced in frustration. Sine was still unconcious on the floor, being fussed over ineffectually by one of his aides. Barros' script-servitor, tasked with recording his every glorious word and deed, was attempting to follow him along his pacing line. After turning and nearly walking into it for the second time, he finally lost his temper.

'Feth off! You stupid thing!' the servitor dutifully scratched the words onto the parchment supported before it. 'Oh, go and sit over by the wall, damn you.' It waited until it had recorded the order before obeying. Barros sometimes suspected it did it on purpose to annoy him.

'And where's that doddering old fool? The Deathwatch docked an hour ago.' Barros was acutely aware that, Inquisitor or no, he'd never have the guts to call Ariccus a fool to the Keeper's face. He took a deep, shuddering breath, and calmed himself. Anger would get him nowhere. 'Script-servitor, delete my last.' He didn't think Ariccus was in any way to blame for the mess; it was simply that he was currently the only target available. Particularly since Barros' Interrogator had, after one of the most ineffectual pieces of scrying she'd performed to date, muttered 'the dreamer awakes' and collapsed to the floor. She hadn't moved in the last hour or so.

Inquisitor Maxim Barros, of the Most Holy Ordos Xenos, was stumped, frankly. Three weeks ago he had recieved an astropathic message of the highest priority. Its contents had prompted him to order his ship, the _Holy Vengeance_, into the warp whilst sending out several messages of his own. Something had been taken from the omega-level security vaults in Fortress Vantos, and he had requested the assistance of the Deathwatch in tracking it down. Having arrived a few hours before the promised kill-team, he had headed into the depths of the asteroid to examine the vault and question the Keepers.

It had irked him no end to discover the Keepers had no idea what had been taken. They guarded the vaults for the Ordos; what was interred within was no concern of theirs. This was a reasonable precaution given some of the relics stored there could shake the faith of even the strongest men, but it was no help to Barros now. A cursory glance through the vault's data-storage had shown that that too had been wiped clean, and after his seer, Interrogator Sine, had collapsed, he found he had nothing to do but wait for the Deathwatch to arrive.

Waiting irritated Barros. He started to pace the floor again, avoiding, with each circuit, the empty pedestal in the centre of the room.

Eventually, the sounds of heavy footfalls outside roused him from his annoyed reverie. The first looming shape to cross the threshold was Keeper Ariccus, unreadable as ever behind his helm. Barros had found him positively monosyllabic during his questioning; secretly he hoped the Keeper was as pissed off about the whole thing as he was. Ariccus stepped to the side and gestured formally to the shape behind him.

'My Lord Inquisitor Barros, may I present Deathwatch Codicier Gunnlaug, of the Space Wolves.'

The Space Wolf's eyes were the first thing Barros noticed. Grey, they pierced from beneath a shaggy mane of dark hair, streaked with white. His armour, like Arricus', was the black of the Deathwatch; one shoulder pad the silver skull of the Inquisition, the other the grey-blue of the Wolves. Over it he wore the furs of some huge nameless beast; no doubt killed in battle long ago. Various honour scrolls fluttered from his armour, and one gauntlet rested lightly on the hilt of a blade strapped to his hip. His gaze swept the room, and Barros had the strangest impression he was _sniffing_ them all. When he opened his mouth to speak, Barros glimpsed the enlarged canines common to his geneseed.

'Inquisitor.' His voice was surprisingly mellow.

'Codicier. Where is the rest of your kill-team?' Barros couldn't see any other space marines in the corridor beyond, and seven foot tall superhumans, he reflected, were quite hard to miss.

The grey eyes regarded him silently, for a moment. He thought he caught a glimpse of amusement in them, and had the sinking feeling he tended to get when faced with an individual who might be able to read his thoughts.

'My kill-team, Inquisitor?'

'Yes, your damned kill-team. The kill-team I specifically requested to clear up this mess.' He waved his arm around the room. 'I don't even know what was taken! The files were wiped.' He could feel the annoyance mounting. 'I requested the Deathwatch because whoever did this had clearance. As much clearance as I have. Which means they were Inquisition. With hopefully a very good explanation or, Throne forbid, heretic. Either way, I need the incorruptible.'

Gunnlaug nodded slowly. 'You requested assistance tracking something stolen. The Deathwatch of the Sable Reach are stretched thin, and Watch Captain Lanoit thought I would be best suited to help you.' He turned his eyes to the empty pedestal and breathed in, deeply. As he did so, Barros felt the air in the room cool slightly and a shiver he had been trained to recognise ran across his skin; the shiver that denoted a psyker.

'Strange.' The Librarian was frowning slightly. 'I can sense where something should have been, but not where it is.' His frown deepened. 'Or even what it is, come to that.'

'Is that unusual?' Barros felt his calm returning, now that something was actually happening. There was something implacable about the Space Wolf; the Inquisitor's anger had run off him like rain from a mountain.

'Very.' The Librarian's eyes moved to the still figure of Barros' interrogator. He breathed in, and again the chill swept through the room. 'Your interrogator, for example. Aia Sine. Born on Chulan, in the Ferris Sub-sector. Thirty-eight. Psyker, mid range delta-level. Her happiest moment was when she felt the presence of the divine, in a lonely chapel outside Thuggon, on leave from the front lines. Her darkest was when she lost her closest friend aboard the Black Ship she was tested upon. Her first word,' a smile crept into those grey eyes, 'was 'wolf'. A variant of the species inhabits the forests where she grew up.'

'You can see all that?' Barros was impressed. Sine had only ever been able to give him vague impressions; useful, but difficult to pin down.

'And more.' Gunnlaug returned his attention to the empty pedestal. 'Or rather, I can smell it. People, places, items. The scent of each becomes filled with the emotions and feelings they have experienced; love, hate, pain. Death is very strong; the stink of a great battlefield can last for hundreds of millenia.' Gunnlaug smiled, displaying his fangs. 'The stronger the emotion, the stronger the scent. That is my gift. It is why Watch Captain Lanoit assigned me this task.'

'Very well.' Barros gestured towards the pedestal. 'Can you get a better read on that, then? Interrogator Sine tried, and passed out after muttering something about a sleeper.'

Gunnlaug sniffed the air. '"The dreamer awakes"?'

Barros nodded. 'Something like that. You can smell it?'

'Yes.' The marine was looking curious. 'There was a great deal of emotion attached.' He knelt down in front of the pedestal and cupped his gauntlets around it. 'I shall try to discover where she found those words. Have patience, this may take time.'

Barros sighed. 'Oh, don't mind me.'

The sarcasm was lost on the Space Wolf. His eyes were closed, and his head back. He began to breathe in, deeply, constantly. The temperature of the room began to fall. Barros' breath was suddenly visible in front of him, and a movement of his hand dislodged thousands of tiny ice crystals forming on the sleeve of his coat. The Librarian was still breathing in the air of the room, and with it, the warmth. He couldn't possibly have that much lung capacity, Barros decided. This was something unnatural. The Inquisitor began to shiver violently, and quickly gestured for the aides tending Interrogator Sine to carry her from the room. The script-servitor, he decided, as he followed them out, could damn well stay and record.

* * *

_He could smell, if he concentrated, the whole history of the vault. A group of men, haggard and tired looking, clustered around the pedestal talking animatedly. He tried to see over their shoulders, to see what they were discussing, but in the way of dreams and visions he found every step he took towards them brought him no closer._

_He exerted his will, and forced himself forward. He slid towards the group and seemed to bounce off an invisible wall. He was floating, peering over them to the pedestal beyond. Wherever he moved, one would move to block him; a shoulder, a head, an arm; something would obsure his vision at the last moment. He scrabbled against them, trying to find chinks, or cracks, to lever apart._

_Finally he found a crack. Latching on, he levered it with all his strength. There was resistance, a bulge of pressure against him, and for a moment he thought he'd lost it completely. Then, suddenly, he felt it crumble. The figures of the past became only two dimensional, and flaked away like ash from a fire. He was left gazing at what was on the pedestal, at a small golden cylinder, inscribed along its length with runes he did not recognise._

_The relic whipped away from him, through time, and he gave chase, his claws scratching against the featureless floor. Images of other golden objects flickered around him; another smaller cylinder it should contain, and a larger, that contained them both. He saw glimpses of strange beings, of dying worlds, of a planet eternally lit. He saw another Inquisitor, recent, tall, shaven-headed, with silver augmentation on his skull. Someone somewhere was laughing, madly. It could have been him._

_Suddenly the glint of gold vanished, sucked into an unclean darkness that grew larger and larger as he approached. The other cylinders were swept elsewhere, but he found himself following the first. He attempted to slow, but found he could not. All the images faded, and he was alone on a plain with the darkness, which pulled him inexorably towards it. He could feel his willpower fading, his strength deserting him. He howled desperately against the pull, and scrabbled upon the floor. He knew, instincively, that there could be no return from the blackness._

_And then a hand was holding him, and the darkness grew no closer. Images of a fleet of starships, and a gate in space, and a madness swept upon him, and he found he was looking into thousands of chanting, frantic faces. They crowded towards him, laughing, crying, screaming; 'The dreamer awakes. The devourer devoured. The dreamer awakes. The devourer devoured.' He turned away from them, ran from them, and the hand was there with him, guiding him, holding him. He felt his mind beginning to break, and with a supreme effort of will, he forced himself away from the vision._

_Darkness descended, but now it was clean, and welcoming. He allowed it to sweep him away, and saw and smelt no more._

* * *

Gunnlaug could hear someone calling him. He tried to respond, but his eyes would not open. He struggled for a moment, and then forced his ice-encrusted lids slowly apart. Inquisitor Barros was staring at him, a slight irritation suffusing his scent. He mouthed along to silence for a moment more, and then Gunnlaug's hearing snapped back.

'.. to try and wake you. ' Barros was wearing a furlined greatcoat and gloves. The air, Gunnlaug realised, was very cold.

'The dreamer awakes.' He didn't know why he'd said that. It was the first thing which presented itself.

Barros pulled back slightly and raised an eyebrow. 'Yes, that's what she said.' He jerked his head and Gunnlaug realised Interrogator Sine was standing behind the Inquisitor, wrapped up similarly against the cold. She was looking very pale. 'She didn't know why, however. I'm hoping you can shed more light on the subject.'

Gunnlaug slowly stood up, furs crackling as they shifted in the cold. He ached all over, his enhanced metabolism struggling to cope with the aftermath of the trance. He stretched, wolfishly, and felt the satisfaction of joints and muscles clicking into place. It felt as though he had been under for quite some time. Long enough for the entire room to be coated in a layer of psy-ice.

'Yes, Inquisitor. I can shed some light. Perhaps if we discuss it somewhere warmer?'

'Of course.' Barros swept from the room, closely followed by Sine. As Gunnlaug moved to follow them, Ariccus, who judging by the ice on his armour had not left his post by the the door, forestalled him with a raised gauntlet.

'Are you all right, brother?' The concern in his voice was genuine; Gunnlaug could smell it on him. 'You were gone for over a day.'

'That long?' That explained the aches, at least. 'I shall be fine, brother-keeper. Thank you for your concern.'

The Keeper nodded, and followed Gunnlaug from the room.

* * *

She was scared of him, he could smell it. He was surprised none of the other passengers could, it was so strong. Gunnlaug and Interrogator Sine were sitting side by side in the launch bays of the _Running Man_, an Inquisitorial courier ship, waiting to be shown to their quarters by a youthful midshipman who was very slowly working through the various groups of military and Inquisitorial personnel around them. Sine was yet to speak to him.

Inquisitor Barros had been abrupt. Upon hearing that there were other pieces of the stolen cylinder, and that the Librarian could track them, but not the original (after watching it lost within the darkness which had almost consumed him, Gunnlaug had been unable to sense it any further), he had asked Gunnlaug to attempt to find those pieces whilst he investigated the several Inquisitors who had visited Fortress Vantos in the last few months. His theory was that one of them would stumble across something that would lead them to the thief.

He had insisted that Gunnlaug go fully undercover, which had been reasonable. His stated reasoning, however; 'I don't want a massive Space Marine scaring all my answers away', had demanded no small restraint on the part of the Space Wolf.

Gunnlaug was therefore out of armour, and feeling like a newly shaven wolf cub, unused to the cold touch of air on his skin. He was currently wearing just a shirt, baggy combat trousers, boots (he had been impressed that Fortress Vantos' quartermaster had found a pair that would fit), and a snub-nosed bolt pistol strapped to his thigh. His armour and rune sword, blessed and cleaned, had been stored aboard Barros' ship, the _Holy Vengeance_.

It had been the final demand of the Inquisitor which had annoyed him the most, however. The one which had given him his travelling companion. 'She's more human than you are, frankly. She'll be a help. And she could do with the experience.' Barros' tone had brooked no argument.

Watch Captain Lanoit's orders had been clear: assist the Inquisitor. Gunnlaug, despite his better judgement, and his preference to work alone, had aquiesed.

'Thoughts?' He tried to keep his voice as gentle as possible. Sine flinched visibly as he turned towards her. 'Interrogator, I'm not going to hurt you.'

She gulped and nodded. He could smell her fighting to get her fear under control. 'I.. I.. yes, Lord. I apologise.' An inquisitorial stormtrooper near them looked at Gunnlaug curiously. He stared back until the trooper lowered his eyes and moved to a respectful distance.

Gunnlaug raised his right hand towards Sine. To him, shorn of its usual ceramite, it looked small and weak. To her, it was still easily capable of crushing her skull, he realised, and quickly withdrew it. To give Sine her due, the Interrogator had not flinched that time.

'Perhaps that's something we should address.' He sensed his voice was calming her a little, and kept going. 'We're soon to be undercover. I'll call you Sine, you call me Gunnlaug. Can you manage that, Sine?'

'Yes, Lor.. Gunnlaug.' She took a deep breath. 'Forgive me, I find it difficult around..'

'Space Marines?' She shook her head abruptly.

'Then what?' She was still refusing to look at him. He breathed in deeply, and understanding dawned. 'Ah. Powerful psykers.' She nodded.

'I've always been sensitive to others like me. The more powerful they are, the more difficult I find proximity. I was lucky that my Lord Barros is not a psyker.' She steeled herself visibly, and turned to Gunnlaug. Her eyes were brown, but sharply intelligent, 'It will become easier in time. Our mission will be unaffected.'

Gunnlaug nodded, and watched a loading servitor struggle across the shuttle bay deck in front of them. Most human psykers had a whole plethora of issues. Few were allowed off the leash at all. Sine wouldn't have reached the rank of Interrogator if she wasn't one of the more stable ones. He would have to deal with the runes he was cast.

'Gunnlaug?' Sine seemed to have gained her confidence after their initial exchange. 'Why this ship? Where are we going?'

He gestured towards his belt. A pouch on it contained twelve knucklebones, carefully carved with Old Fenrisian runes. Sine had already seen him throw them on the floor and mull over them once.

'I cast the runes and follow my nose.' Gunnlaug settled his massive frame more comfortably. He had a feeling the midshipman, currently trying to calm an angry Inquistorial aide, was going to be a while. 'The rest I leave in the hands of Russ.'


	3. Chapter 3

***CHAPTER 3***

_Rot shall be cleansed and darkness shall be purified. The Dreamer shall awake.  
_- _Excerpt from 'The Dreamer Awakes'_

The pilgrim's ships were like huge blubbery sea-creatures. Thanon Lucius was watching them on the central bridge holo-display, from his seat in the command pulpit of the _Spiritus Imperialis._ Huge blubbery sea-creatures that travelled in shoals. Even now, with the Feast of the Years in full swing on the planet's surface below, groups of them were edging slowly between the stationery grandeur of the de Valliard fleet, desperate to reach the surface of the planet below.

Faith was an astounding thing, mused Thanon. He knew, the warp being such an unpredictable mistress, that pilgrim ships would continue to arrive at Ancion's End for months and even years to come, too late for a ceremony that would not reoccur during the lives of most of them. He wondered how they would react; how it would feel, to have sold your livelihood, your children's future, and never see the object of your pilgrimage.

Perhaps, though, the truly unlucky ones were those passing him now; in the shoals of badly maintained bulk transports and merchant vessels. By the chronometer on the rim of the command pulpit, the Ecclesiarchy would have already begun to choose the ten thousand from amongst the faithful who would be blessed with seeing the warrant. None of the pilgrims still in orbit would make it to the surface in time.

How many of those captains would have told the pilgrims crammed into their cargo hold that they had already missed their chance? Thanon doubted many would; they would have charged ridiculous fees for the passage, and stored their cargo like rats in a barrel. Better to let the pilgrims reach the surface and vent their anger there, whilst the benefactors of their misfortune sat safely in orbit, counting their gold.

Thanon smiled to himself. How melodramatic. He really was at a loss, if that was all he could come up with. He looked around him, searching for a flaw, and found nothing of note. The bridge of the _Spiritus Imperialis_ was a textbook of quiet, bustling efficiency. Servitors, petty officers and two junior lieutenants went about the business of running a ship in orbit, and Thanon's eagle eye could see nothing to object to. Say what you liked, and Thanon very often said exactly what he liked, about Danton de Valliard, the man ran a good ship. It was one of the main reasons Thanon was able to forgive him his other eccentricities. That, and they had been friends for over a decade.

Frankly, there was really very little to do. Hanging in orbit with a fleet comprised, including the _Spiritus_, of four light cruisers, two cruisers and the _Imperator Lux_; the ancient flagship of the de Valliards, Thanon felt very safe and very bored. Not to mention the Inquisitorial ship _Last Angel_ currently orbiting alongside them. A heavily modified Dictator-class cruiser he suspected, the Inquisition being the Inquisition, that she would punch far above her weight in any sort of combat situation.

No. Nothing for it but to watch the slow mesmerising dance of the shoals of pilgrims as they crawled around the stationary sharks of the fleet. Actually, speaking of slow; Thanon leaned forward and addressed the Lieutenant in the comms pulpit below him.

'Rovin, that pilgrim ship,' he gestured towards the holo-display, 'she's been drifting near us for some time.'

'Aye, commander' Lieutenant Rovin touched his screen and projected the vox history between the _Spiritus_ and the pilgrim ship onto the display in the command pulpit. 'The _Curtis_. Free merchant designant 1091-M-77. She's been having drive trouble. The captain is immensly apologetic; he seems under the impression we might shoot him out of the sky.'

'Reassure the captain that if I get bored enough, he'll be my first target.' Thanon caught the Lieutenant's grin as he relayed the message into the vox. Drive trouble indeed. The first thing to go would be the expensive life support to the pilgrim quarters, he had no doubt.

'The captain assures you he will be gone in moments' the lieutenant reported. 'He sounded a little perturbed.' Rovin was ever one for understatement.

'Good.' Making one small time captain wet himself wasn't enough to mitigate the suffering of the pilgrims, but it afforded Thanon a small measure of satisfaction. 'Actually, Rovin, scan them properly, would you? I'd be curious to see how many poor people he's crammed into that tin.'

'Aye, commander.'

The command pulpit suddenly began to bleep. Thanon looked down to see a single red light flashing at him. He stared at it.

'Commander?' Lieutenant Rovin's voice was confused.

'Lieutenant?' Thanon didn't look up.

'Commander, she's..'

'Empty?' Danton de Valliard had just pressed the gold and jet ring Symonne had found for him after one of his more ..reckless.. escapades. They'd had a devil of a time trying to make him wear it.

Right here, and right now. Something was terribly wrong. Thanon felt the anxiety, the anger, the fear, and placed them all to one side with practiced ease. Right now, he could only afford one emotion. Calm.

'Battle alert. All hands to stations. Combat systems.' His voice was ice. 'Energy priority is as follows; shields, drive, prow lances, turrets, launch bays. Confirm.'

'Confirmed.' Rovin's voice was steady. A calm commander created a calm chain of command. That was Thanon's way.

Thanon raised his eyes and looked, properly looked, at the holo-display at the centre of the bridge. Gone were the shoals and sharks. Instead, he saw the fleet, beautiful, powerful, and currently so very fragile. He saw the drifters; apparent pilgrim ships a little too close to the _Dauntless Ambition,_ to the _Admiral Ancion_, to the _Sanguinius Sanctus_. He saw the display on Lieutenant Rovin's screen, the contents of the _Curtis_.

'Dispatch to fleet, priority one. My codes.' He knew it would be too late. 'Fireships. Fireships. Fireships.' It one of the most horrible things a captain could hear.

* * *

Symonne poked the thing in her drink, before turning to the seneschal, who was watching the packed hall with a world-weary air. He probably hadn't had this much fun in ages.

'Does that look like an eyeball to you?' She asked, proffering the drink.

He recoiled slightly 'My lady?'.

'The drink, man. The thing in my drink.' She shook the glass for emphasis.

'No, my Lady.' Quinlus managed to look both disapproving and distainful without moving any facial muscles she could spot. 'I believe it is a Lopa, a great delicacy amongst the highborn of Ancion's End.'

'Oh.' She poked it. It made a gloop noise. 'Still looks like an eyeball to me.'

Quinlus made a non-committal sound, and returned to watching the hall. They were standing together near the refreshments table, near one of the corners. Around them swarmed the retainers and hangers-on to the rest of Danton's family. From what she had seen, Danton's descision to bring only her, Quinlus and Maracoth to the surface made him something of a rarity amongst his relations. Some of the de Valliards had brought huge trains of, as far as she could see, purposeless sycophants.

Brightly coloured sycophants, too. The room was awash with what Symonne assumed were the lastest fashions, vivid colours that made her eyes water. She didn't enjoy parties at the best of times. This one was making her want to shoot someone.

She took a sip of her drink. Despite the eyeball, it was actually quite nice. She wondered idly if she could persuade Maracoth the fruit was really an eyeball. She hadn't seen him for a while. Like her, he didn't like parties. Unlike her, he could navigate them. She had lost him in the crowd early on, and since had had to stand around by Quinlus whilst he people-watched. Occaisionaly he would point out a passing dignitary; her reward, she supposed, for standing still for long enough.

A couple of overly frilly, overly bright women passed her on the way to the refreshment table. She saw one of them, dressed in a horrible pink, look at her and say something to her companion. They both tittered. She hadn't caught what had been said, but she could lip read pretty well. Right.

'Lady Evian.' Quinlus' scratchy old voice was gently warning. For someone who spent most of his time staring at a data-slate, the seneschal was very good at reading people.

She sighed, and shrugged. 'I'd only have punched her.'

'Unwise, my lady. That was Avona del Tomia. A cousin to the family. There would have been repercussions.'

'Repercussions?' Maracoth appeared from the crowd next to them, and smiled cheerfully at them Symonne. 'Having fun yet?'

'I would have if Quinlus hadn't stopped me punching someone.' She nodded at the woman in pink.

Maracoth followed her gaze and winced. 'Whilst I appreciate the sentiment, 'repercussions' is probably an apt word. Perhaps if you could restrain your general urge to shoot, stab or punch people for a while longer?'

'Seeing as you asked me nicely, Marac.' Symonne liked Maracoth, even if he did have a tendency to be fatherly towards everyone. The Void Master seemed to genuinely like most people. It was a skill Symonne had never got the hang of.

Maracoth was scanning the room. He nodded to a group across from them. 'They look friendly.'

Symonne followed his gaze. 'Inquisition. Hard bunch.' The group was a mix of a Inquisitorial stormtroopers and various aides. None of them looked particularly impressed by the crowds surrounding them. All of them were armed. She admired that, at least. Her power-blade and pistols had received several distainful looks already. 'Who's in charge, d'you think?'

'I think that's an interrogator.' Maracoth indicated a small man wearing red robes. Two figures in black body-gloves stood near him. 'Mostly because the ladies in the 'gloves seem interested in his well being.'

'Death cultists.' Symonne sniffed. It was all well and good being an expert in multiple forms of martial arts and capable of dodging lasfire, but she felt if you couldn't relax occasionally, there wasn't much point. The two body-gloved death cultists were watching the room with the intensity of true fanatics.

'Indeed. We-' Maracoth paused. Quinlus muttered something from behind them. Both of them, she knew, had an earpiece keyed into the _Spiritus_' private vox channel. Both of their earpieces would have just made the same on-off-on tone that hers had.

Across the room from her, the interrogator reached to his ear, nodded, and turned to say something to the stormtrooper behind him. Symonne's combat adrenaline fired instantly.

'Get down!' She turned and dragged Quinlus to the floor. Maracoth was already there; for all he was old, his reactions were those of a Fury pilot.

The stormtroopers opened fire on the room.

* * *

'Report!'

Parts of the bridge were on fire. The main holo-display had ceased to work. Thanon dragged himself upright from where he had fallen.

'Report, Lieutenant.' It was an effort to keep his voice calm. His head felt wet. Had he been showering? He touched his forehead and stared at his red fingertips for a while. The bridge began to spin around him, and it took a supreme effort of will to make it stop.

'Lieutenant Rovin, I..' His voice trailed away as he looked into the comms pulpit below him. Rovin was unmistakably dead. Living people have more head. Thanon wished, for a brief moment, he had the same approach to leading as Danton, who would have sworn at length at this point. But no. Calm commander, calm chain of command.

He keyed the vox on his command pulpit. 'Bridge code yellow. Repeat, bridge code yellow.' His own voice, echoing back to him through the speakers around the bridge, sounded remarkably controlled. Two ratings were already manhandling Rovin's corpse out of the pulpit; another Lieutenant standing by ready to assume the comms. Firecrews were working around the bridge crew.

'Report'

'Void shields rose as the _Curtis_ detonated, Commander. They absorbed much of the blast. We've hull breaches to starboard and hangar deck C is offline. Combat efficiency 90%.'

It could have been much worse. Thank the Throne for his descision to scan the _Curtis_. He wondered briefly what was happening on the surface, and then put the thoughts to one side. He had more pressing matters to deal with right now.

'Launch Angel and Sword squadrons. Inform the Void Master..' he trailed off as he remembered Maracoth was on the planet beneath them. Much good the old man could do there. 'Inform First-Lieutenant Sonnan I want close protection from Sword. Angel is to intercept ranged threats on my order.' Sonnan was Maracoth's second.

'Aye sir.' Around him the bridge was functioning as it should, regardless of the debris and the bodies. He asked the question he was dreading.

'Fleet status?'

'_Sanguinius Sanctus, Admiral Ancion, Gwendoline_ all reporting serious damage from fireships. The _Imperator Lux_ and the _Dauntless Ambition _have taken minor damage, although the _Imperator Lux _is currently unable to raise shields.' Thanon felt a measure of relief; the _Imperator Lux_, a Repulsive-class grand cruiser, was the oldest and most holy vessel in the fleet.

Along with her sister ship, the _Angelicus Lux_, she had defended Ancion's end against the great betrayal almost ten thousand years ago and since had served gloriously as the de Valliard flagship. Countless battle honours were inscribed into her hull. Her prow depicted the events of those fateful battles in huge beautiful reliefs half a kilometer high.

'Commander, the _Sword of Divinity_' The Lieutenant's voice was shaking. 'She's.. gone.'

'Gone?'

'A fireship must have damaged her drives. She exploded.'

Thanon drew a deep breath. Sixty-five thousand souls, gone; in an instant.

'The Inquisition ship?'

'The _Last Angel_.. no damage, sir' The Lieutenant sounded worried. 'Her shields are up, her lances..' his voice tailed away.

He didn't have to finish. Thanon was watching the same data on the displays in his command pulpit. He knew what was about to happen. The _Last Angel_ was gliding, like a black razor, towards the shieldless and helpless _Imperator Lux_. Thanon could hear the vox growing desperate with the sounds of the _Imperator's _bridge crew demanding to know the black ship's intent. The _Angel's _lances flashed out a moment later, in response.

Around Thanon, the bridge grew silent. One of the ceiling vid-screens was showing, in grim detail, the searing beams of energy punching through the decks of the ancient Grand Cruiser. The fires of atmospheric leaks could be seen all along the _Imperator's_ seven kilometer length as the _Last Angel_ swept regally past her victim. Thanon could hear one of the petty officers in the bridge below him praying. He sympathised.

'She's coming around.' The Lieutenant's voice was panicky.

'Calm yourself.' No choice. He was hopelessly outgunned, but _Spiritus _was the closest ship. No choice. 'Bring us about. Launch the Starhawks. Sword and Angel squadrons to provide cover.' He looked around at the bridge crew, at their shocked faces, their battered consoles. He managed to force a smile.

'The Emperor Protects.' It sounded hollow, even to him.

* * *

They found Danton outside the Vault, struggling to stand. Around him, the bodies of several noble de Valliards lay strewn carelessly, as though tossed by a child. Maracoth grabbed him under his arm as he swayed, slightly. His eyes and ears were bleeding from the synapse grenade.

'Where.. where is it?' He had to force the words past his tongue.

'My lord?' Symonne had discarded the greatcoat. Bolt pistol in one had, powerblade in the other, she was watching every exit with a wary expression. Danton noticed, blearily, she had a cut across one of her thighs. Her other bolt pistol was being held by Maracoth.

'The Warrant! My family's pride.' He could feel the anger growing. Around him the palace echoed to the sounds of lasfire.

'Gone, Lord.' Quinlus sounded older than usual, and very very tired. 'The Inquisitor, it would seem, had shipped down more of his stormtroopers than we knew about. Mostly as a distraction. They opened fire indiscriminately. Some of the pilgrims, too; fanatics. It was horrible.'

Danton straightened, and placed his hand on Quinlus' shoulder. 'It is an insult which shall be avenged. They will be heading towards the shuttle pad. Come on!'

'Danton.' Symonne cut across him. 'I'm sorry, but my duty is to protect you. The Inquisitor has multiple troops with him, not to mention his death-cultists.' She rubbed the cut on her thigh and winced. 'Who are very fast.'

'Not as fast as you, I suspect.' Danton's voice was firm. For once, he wasn't being frivolous. 'And it wasn't a request. It was an order. The Warrant is more important than my personal safety.'

She held his eyes for a moment longer, and then nodded. 'As you say, lord. Which way?'

He paused for a moment, searching old memories. 'Through here' he gestured towards an old servant's door. As they hurried towards it, he drew _Veritus_ and activated it. The hum of the power sword's cell calmed him somewhat. For all his bravado, it had been years since he'd been in a face-on fight.

Maracoth raised a skeptical eyebrow at him 'If you could leave most of the fighting to Symonne and I, I'd feel much more comfortable.'

Danton forced a smile. 'You stick the pointy end in people. I _know_ how it works.'

Symonne sighed. 'Emperor protect us.' They hurried deeper into the warren of tunnels below the palace.

For the most part, they avoided the fighting. Danton was leading them through the servant's tunnels; the Inquisitorial troops would be providing cover to the Inquisitor's escape, and thus concentrating on the main parts of the Palace. Every so often they passed huddled groups of servants, sheltering from the gunfire, shocked beyond belief that such a holy occasion had been defiled. Each time, Danton paused for a moment to give them a few comforting words. As a scion of the family, he felt they were partly his responsibility; for all he knew, that might well be fully the case. He hadn't seen Eleana de Valliard's body by the vault, but his Uncle Dochius had been there, and several of his cousins. He felt his fury wind a little tighter within him.

Shortly, they rejoined the main parts of the palace. It was a wreck. The bodies of loyal house soldiers were mixed with the black carapace-armoured figures of Inquisitorial troops. The halls were deserted. Danton suspected many of the de Valliard troops would have been killed before they could return fire; firing on Inquisition stormtroopers was not something loyal Imperials would do lightly. The main hall leading to the shuttlepad, lined with tapestries of great de Valliards of the past, was burnt and blackened.

Towards the far end, they came upon a group of house soldiers, clustered around what had clearly been makshift barricades. Many were injured. Their Captain saluted Danton and lead him through the troops to a figure lying against one of the pillars that ran the length of the hall. Danton recognised him at once; one of Dochius' many children. Petin, he thought. The boy was barely fourteen.

Danton knelt down beside him. He had been stabbed through the torso, and was slipping in and out of conciousness.

'Cousin Danton!' Petin tried to smile, and winced instead. 'I'm sorry, I tried to stop them. They took the Warrant.' he waved his hand weakly in the direction of the shuttle pad. 'You'll retrieve it, won't you?' His eyes flickered as he said it, and he passed out.

Danton nodded, and took his hand 'I'll retrieve it.' The child probably couldn't hear him, but it was more of a vow than an answer.

He stood up, and looked at the Captain. 'They've gone?'

'Yes, Lord.' He was a greying man in his middle years. He looked utterly shell-shocked. 'We received news that the warrant had been stolen by the Inquisitor. I didn't believe it until we were attacked by Inquisitorial stormtroopers. The men were running, but Lord Petin rallied them.' He nodded at the now unconscious boy. 'We held them here' he indicated the barricades and bodies around them 'until the Death-Cultist arrived. We couldn't hit her, or stop her. She ran Lord Petin through and laughed.' He shuddered.

Danton walked past him, the few paces through the broken doors, and out onto the shuttle pad. It was empty, save for several de Valliard shuttles and the occasional crumpled body.

The city around him was silent. There was no music or laughter. The glow from the coloured lamps illuminated empty and sorrowing streets. He raised his eyes to the stars, and saw the tiny flickerings of macrobatteries and lances firing. Tens of thousands would be dying above him, fighting the same struggle the men behind him had just lost.

'There were reports of fireships amongst the fleet.' The Captain had followed him out onto the shuttlepad.

'Thank you, Captain.' He felt the anger slowly draining away, to be replaced by despair. The stars were so very far away, he thought. And then he thought of Petin, and the bodies of de Valliard troopers, dead through betrayal, and he felt his resolve firming, and his anger growing anew. He nodded, his eyes fixed on the battle above him.

'I'll retrieve it.' he said.


End file.
